


All Grown Up

by kuonji



Series: Beginnings And Endings [7]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Character Study, Family, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:44:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuonji/pseuds/kuonji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second of The Angel Stories.</p><p>
  <em>The envelope was white. If he held it up to the light, he could see the spiky slanted writing on the single sheet of paper inside. It'd been folded into neat thirds, however, making all the words indecipherable amid the overlapping lines.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Grown Up

**Author's Note:**

> This one's a little different from the others.  I hope you read it with interest.
> 
> Alternative Links:  
> <http://starskyhutch911.livejournal.com/480076.html>  
> <http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/36806.html>

The envelope was white. If he held it up to the light, he could see the spiky slanted writing on the single sheet of paper inside. It'd been folded into neat thirds, however, making all the words indecipherable amid the overlapping lines.

Ken had never received a letter to his parents before. Mrs. Prich had given him a deeply disappointed look as she'd handed it to him. He'd felt his cheeks flushing, especially when she'd said, "I wish you would let me help you, Ken. You used to be one of my best students."

He'd stammered an "I'm sorry", and he'd left the classroom at almost a run.

Not too fast once he got out of his homeroom teacher's gaze, of course. He didn't want to accidentally run into any of his friends. They didn't try to ask him out anymore, but he still felt their puzzled, sometimes angry stares whenever he saw them. It'd pass, he was sure. Already, Rick and Joey barely even paid attention to him anymore.

He sandwiched the envelope inside the front cover of his history book to keep it from getting crinkled. Then he checked the time on his watch. It had a real leather strap, stained a dark beautiful brown, and roman numerals on its face instead of the normal numbers. He kept meaning to get rid of it, but every morning he found himself putting it back on again.

He'd been in here for long enough, he thought. Listening carefully and not hearing any movement outside, he shouldered his bookbag and exited the stall, the metal cool on his palm as he pushed it open.

The boys' bathroom was a brick structure with no lights and only a small row of windows near the tops of the walls. When he stepped outside after ten minutes in the dim shelter, the sun was blinding. Blinking rapidly, Ken ducked his head down and walked quickly toward the school gates. He tried to look tremendously busy, like the harried men in dress shirts with pencils tucked over their ears that worked at his father's office.

"Hey, Ken! Ken! Wait up!"

He came to a reluctant halt at the repeated shouts and looked around.

Jack ran up to him, breathless. His slightly puffy cheeks were red, like he'd run hard. Ken could see Joey hanging back by the main buildings, his baseball duffle over one shoulder. Joey shuffled, then cupped his hands and shouted, "I'm going ahead!" and took off. Jack hesitated, took a step away, then stilled.

"You'd better get going to practice," Ken said, silently urging him away. But his voice only seemed to rivet Jack's attention back to himself. The other boy shrugged.

"Joey will cover for me. He's the one who made us late, leaving his gear in the classroom."

"Coach is going to be mad."

"Aw, what's he gonna do?" Jack grinned, the mischievous look lighting up his features. Five months younger than Ken, Jack was nevertheless outgoing and a little bossy, but he had a great sense of humor, too. Ken had known him only since the beginning of this year when Jack's family had moved here. Ken had struck up a friendship with the new boy and they'd clicked so well that Jack had quickly joined their little gang.

Ken regretted that now.

"He could kick you off the team, that's what," he replied sharply. "Go on and get back. Maybe you can still catch Joey up."

"Grounded for snitching a cookie's same as being grounded for snitching two," Jack said philosophically. Ken couldn't remember the last time he'd snitched a cookie himself. That sort of childish behavior all seemed so long ago. "Hey, my Dad's taking us out sailing on the lake this weekend. You know, get us ready for the Scouts an' all. I asked him already if you could come, too, and he said okay."

Sailing? Ken loved it, but Silvia and his mother didn't, so they hardly ever went. Ken's parents almost never had the time, anyway. They'd only been on one trip since after his sister had left for college. Only a few short months ago, joining the Sea Scouts, just as soon as summer started, had been the most exciting thing he could dream of.

"I--" He stumbled, not wanting to say no. Jack's father owned his own yacht, a gorgeous sixteen-footer with red and orange sails. He yearned suddenly for that peculiar feeling of freedom that being out on the water had always given him. But he couldn't imagine going out with the guys after he'd rebuffed them for months. They must hate him.

"C'mon, Kenny. We gotta practice. You don't want to be swamped by all the older Scouts, do you?"

"I-- I don't think I can make it. There's something going on at home."

Jack crossed his arms, and his grin disappeared. "No, there isn't. You're being a big liar."

"I'm not," he lied uncomfortably. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"You are! A big fat liar. You always say you're busy. What's goin' on with you?"

"Nothing. Just... Just, _stuff_ , okay?"

"Yeah? Real important stuff, huh?"

Ken clenched his fists inside of his pockets. He toed the dirt.

"More important than us, huh?"

"N-No. That's not..."

"We still friends, Kenny?" Jack glowered at him.

"Yeah," Ken mumbled.

"Then come with us."

Ken got the feeling this was the last time any of them would ever ask him again. He should be relieved. He could finally stop avoiding them after this. But he wasn't. "I said I can't."

"Yes, you can. You just don't want to."

Ken kept his head down.

"Say yes, or I'll beat you up!"

He couldn't. Not in a million years. Jack might be the star batter, but he was almost a foot shorter than Ken and still had his baby fat.

But Ken didn't want to fight. He just wanted to get out of here. He wanted to run home and pull the covers over himself like a little kid. He felt almost on the verge of tears for no reason. For no... _damned_ reason.

"You're a lousy jerk, Ken." With a disparaging snort, Jack turned to go, but then he paused. "If you change your mind... We're leaving from my place at five on Saturday."

Ken didn't say anything. When he looked up again, Jack was headed toward the baseball field at a run. Coach was going to yell at him good. Probably make him do sit-ups in front of the rest of the team. He kept watching until Jack went over the slope into the dip where he couldn't see him anymore.

He told himself this was for the best.

Resettling the strap of his bookbag, Ken went for his bike, locked against one of the trees at the front of the school. He started riding home, but he changed his mind at the intersection. It was better to get it over with.

He turned his bike toward his father's office instead.

Corsair Shipping, Inc. was at the very edge of the downtown area, where rent was cheaper. The company headquarters had used to be by the water where the warehouses still were, but Ken's grandfather had moved the administrative personnel to this new place back when he owned the business.

Ken had practically grown up in this cluster of cement and brick. His mother had often brought him to work when he was little. He'd used to think it was a special treat. Now he knew that those were the days when Sylvie couldn't babysit him.

He coasted his bike slowly around the corner from the main street, pausing for one of the express delivery trucks that frequented the buildings here, before making his way to the back. Skirting a pallet of wrapped brown packages that was bound for the building next door, he walked his bike up the slope of the loading area and leaned it against the wall alongside a few others.

Mrs. Tildy greeted him as he went through the simple kitchen (just renovated last year). "Hi, Kenny," she said brightly, turning off the stove under the whistling kettle. "We haven't seen you around in a long time. What's been keeping you busy?"

"Just school," he answered, trying to sound casual.

"Boys these days. They give you too much work, making you grow up too fast." Mrs. Tildy tsked, pouring the boiled water into a neat row of mugs on a tray (perhaps bound for the meeting room) with a concerned frown.

"It's okay." Ken winced, thinking about how bad his grades had been lately.

"Well, you're a smart boy. I suppose you can handle it. My Bobby's up to all hours doing homework. His father says he'll go to Harvard." She made a lady-like harumph. "What good is that, I ask?" The bitter, smoky aroma of black tea filled the room as Ken made polite apologies and sidled by the woman into the office proper.

The wide open room was, as usual, a bustle of noise and movement. Ken smiled weakly at the familiar faces as he threaded through the desks to the only enclosed office in the corner, next door to the meeting room. He'd been able to blank his mind and put himself on automatic on the way here, but now his heart was pounding.

"Kenny, what are you doing here?" The voice was surprised, not upset, but not exactly welcoming either.

"Hi, Mom."

His mother brushed a stray lock of hair over her ear. "Today's been one emergency after another. Can you believe Mr. Thurston cancelled his order? Half a shipping container of wind-up dolls sitting in our yard, and Christmas half a year away! What are we going to do? I _told_ your father we should have asked for a higher guarantee."

Ken tried to remember who Mr. Thurston was. He had only a vague recollection of a white-bearded man who reminded him of pictures of Ulyses S. Grant. "I gotta talk to Dad."

" _Have to_ talk to Dad," his mother corrected. Evidently catching something in his face, she reached out to touch his hand. "Honey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just some school stuff."

Her mouth tightened in worry. Her perfectly applied pink lipstick showed up the contours of her mouth against her pale skin. His mother had to look twice as good and work twice as hard as anyone to be seen as only good enough, she always said, because she was a woman and because she was the boss's wife. She glanced around the room now and then pulled Ken closer.

"What's wrong, Kenny?" she asked again in a softer voice.

"I just need Dad to sign something, honest." At least, he hoped that was all he needed. He couldn't actually know what the letter said.

She stared into his eyes for a while, then sighed. "You Hutchinson men. All right." She checked the open planner at the corner of her desk. "Your Dad's talking to Mr. Handel right now. He should be done soon, so you can go in after. Then he's expecting a phone call at four."

Ken looked at his watch. He'd have fifteen minutes with his father. "Okay, Mom. Thanks."

She looked like she was about to say something else, but her phone rang, and she only patted his hand before turning away.

A man carrying a pile of file folders came down the aisle, and Ken shifted behind his mother's chair to get out of his way. It'd been easier to hide away here when he'd been a kid, he remembered with a small smile. He ran his fingers along the account books on the shelf. He'd used to pretend they were ship's logs and he was the famous treasure-hunter, Captain Kenny. Those dizzying columns of indecipherable numbers had looked like a secret code to him once. How silly that all seemed now.

His mother stayed on the phone -- someone doing an end-of-the month numbers check, he surmised, when she gently herded him aside to get at the leftmost of the large green books behind him -- until his father's office door opened.

Mr. Handel, manager of the west coast accounts, nodded at Ken before striding back toward his desk, where he pulled out a calculator and a calendar and bent busily over them. Ken's mother looked up, her finger on the book in front of her and still making affirmative noises into the phone. She gestured him in with a distracted smile.

This was it. Taking a breath, he entered the room and closed the door, temporarily blocking out the never-ending bustle of the outside.

"Kenny, hi!" His father finished jotting down something and replaced his pen in the cup. He rolled his shoulders a few times. "What's up, tiger?"

Ken looked around the small room. He realized that he hadn't visited here in months. It looked the same as usual, though. A potted plant sat in the corner next to a file cabinet. Two big chairs were arranged in front of his father's wide, oak desk. An Ansel Adams print hung behind his father's head.

Along the windowsill were three pictures. One was from his parents' wedding. One was his sister at her high school graduation. The third was of himself from the Christmas Pageant year before last. He'd been an angel, complete with white robe and wings. He averted his gaze, embarrassed. He'd been so excited then. A little kid.

He gulped and opened his bookbag. His father waited silently for him to take out his history book and remove the white envelope. Not quite meeting his father's gaze, he handed it over.

"What's this?" his father asked, frowning.

"It's from Mrs. Prich."

"Mrs... Your teacher? What's this about?" his father asked, already slitting the top with a letter opener. "Are you in some kind of trouble?" Without waiting for an answer, he shook the paper open and ran hard blue eyes over the lines.

Ken waited nervously, clamping his mouth shut over the list of preemptive excuses that wanted to tumble out. Finally, his father looked up. His face was unreadable.

"It says here your grades have been slipping. And you've quit the baseball team. Is that true?"

It was a fight to keep his hands still at his sides. "Yes, sir."

"What's going on, Ken? That's not like you."

Of course it wasn't. He was supposed to be responsible. Mature. Intelligent. A joy to teach. The perfect son. He didn't speak, but resentment and fear welled up inside him in equal parts.

"Are you bored? The classes too easy for you?"

He shook his head.

"Is Coach Gearson being too hard on you again? I thought we'd cleared that up."

He shook his head again.

His father sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "Your mother was just saying the other day that you haven't had Rick and the others over in a long time. Did you boys have a fight?"

"N-No." He told himself it wasn't exactly a lie.

"Then what's the reason for this?" His father stabbed at the letter he'd laid on the desk in front of him. His forehead furrowed in judgment. "You're getting C's? And a _D_ in social science? And why didn't you tell us you'd quit the team? I thought you liked baseball."

"I just... I had stuff going on. I'll make it up, I promise." There was only a month left of school, but he would do his best.

"What kind of 'stuff'?" his father asked, looking suspicious.

In his desperation, inspiration suddenly struck. "I was... I was seeing someone."

"Seeing--" His father's eyebrows raised. "You mean a girl?"

"Yeah," he replied awkwardly.

"My god... Is that why..." Ken couldn't figure out what his father was thinking, but at least the stern look had disappeared. Suddenly, his father's mouth quirked, and Ken realized that he was trying very hard not to laugh. "Who is it? Do we know her?"

"We broke up," he said quickly, staving off further questions.

"Aw, Kenny..." The excitement on his father's face turned into sympathy. "I'm sorry, son. The first time's always the hardest."

Ken squirmed. He knew his father meant the first time dating, not... "I'm sorry, Dad."

His father sat back in his chair. He sighed. "You shouldn't have let your schoolwork go."

"I know."

"That was very irresponsible of you."

"Yes, sir."

"You'll do your best to make up the work, right?"

"Yes, sir."

His father stared at him for a long moment. Then he slapped his palm on the desktop decisively. "Okay, then." He picked up his pen and flipped to the back side of the letter. He spoke out loud as he wrote: "Thank you, Mrs. Prich, for calling our notice to this. I have talked to my son. He is very sorry and he has promised to work extra hard for the rest of the year..." He signed it and folded the letter back up, then took out a new envelope and put it in, addressing the front to 'Mrs. Prich' in capital letters. "Just give that to your teacher tomorrow, all right?"

Relief made him feel weak. "Thanks, Dad." He took the envelope and put it carefully away in his bookbag. "I really will do better. I swear I will."

Shaking his head, his father stood and gestured him over with a smile. "C'mere, kiddo."

His father didn't hug him often. Ken stood stiffly as the dark, protective smell of sweat and pressed cotton surrounded him. The heat of approaching summer enhanced the warmth of his father's skin beneath undershirt and dress shirt as Ken hugged him back. He fisted the fabric at his father's waist loosely, breathing in a simple comfort that he had all but forgotten about. His father ruffled his hair before pulling back.

"I know it hurts right now, son, but it'll get better. You'll see."

He cupped Ken's face gently with one big, long-fingered hand --

\-- and suddenly, something confused and scared inside of him made Ken jerk away, his heart hammering like a trapped moth inside his ribcage.

He berated himself for it immediately. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. This was his _father_. What was the _matter_ with him? It'd been so long since anyone had touched him like that. Not since... The last time had been... The look of surprise on his father's face killed him.

"S- So-..." A stammering apology started to form, but his father recovered in a laugh and punched his arm.

"It's okay. I understand. You're all grown up now, aren't you? I'll have to remind myself of that."

 _No! That's not it_ , he wanted to protest. But what was he going to say? ' _No, Dad, I'm not the smart, grown up boy you think I am. Please, I'm a stupid, stupid idiot, and I want you to hug me again and make it all better_ '?

"Dad, I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay." His father shrugged. "I still remember when Sylvia could sit on my knee. It's so hard to remember she's a woman now. And look at you! Already breaking hearts." He leaned back against his desk and smiled fondly. "Tell me about her."

Ken hunched uncomfortably, but his father was waiting, blue eyes full of interest and sympathy -- and completely focused on him.

"Was she from your school?"

"No. We met... somewhere else." He licked his lips. "It was so good at first," he blurted. "H--" He swallowed. "She was so _nice_ to me. I don't know what happened. She used to tell me how wonderful I was and how happy she was. I would've-- I would've done anything for her. It just fell apart bit by bit. I don't know what I did wrong." He felt close to tears again, but he also felt like he was setting down something heavy after carrying it up a hill for a very long time.

His father nodded. "Sometimes that happens, Kenny. It's not anybody's fault."

"But there has to be a reason. How could it be so good and then just... end like that?"

His father sighed. "It's hard to tell with relationships, son. People are complicated animals. Sometimes everything feels like it's perfect, but then it trails off. Sometimes, it's the opposite." He smiled. "Your mother and I fought from the moment we met, but that didn't keep us from getting married."

"Really?" It was always hard to imagine his parents as people who dated and had lives that did not involve work. He wasn't used to thinking about them as regular 'people'.

"Sure. It took a while for us to figure out that we both actually looked forward to meeting up together to fight." He chuckled. "Turns out fighting wasn't exactly what we wanted after all. It's a good thing your grandparents insisted on chaperoning."

"Huh?"

His father blinked and looked away quickly. "Ah, you'll know when you're older." He cleared his throat, and it was Ken's turn to blink when he belatedly figured out what his father had meant.

For a terrifying moment, he was afraid his father would take a closer look at Ken and suddenly realize that he was not the innocent angel his father still apparently thought he was. He chewed his bottom lip anxiously, searching for a convincing response that he might have made four months and a lifetime ago.

Thankfully, his father beat him to it: "The point is, Kenny, you never know what will happen. Maybe she just wasn't meant for you. You'll probably figure out she's not what you were looking for after all, either. It's not the end of the world, either way. Just remember the good and forget the bad. You'll find the right girl eventually. You've got lots of time."

Remember the good... "You really think so, Dad?"

"Sure! A son of mine? Watch out. You'll be a real lady-killer when you're grown up. I mean, when you're _more_ grown up." His father punched him in the arm again, and Ken smiled automatically in response, the gesture so new that he wasn't sure yet how to respond.

He rubbed his arm and ducked his head, feeling the back of his neck heat up in shy maybe-pleasure. "Thanks, Dad."

The phone rang and his father scowled.

"That's Mr. Dale." Head of the union dock workers. "All right, Kenny, clear out. I'll see you tonight."

"Bye, Dad."

He looked back at the windowsill before he left. Next month, he'd ask his father to replace that picture of him with one from his junior high graduation.

His mother looked up as he closed the door behind him. "Everything okay, dear?"

He nodded. He hitched the strap of his bookbag higher on his shoulder and wet his lips. "Mom?"

"Hm?"

"Um. Jack invited me out sailing with him and his dad and the guys this Saturday. Can-- May I go?"

"This Saturday?" He held his breath as his mother checked the ever-present planner. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to say 'yes' or 'no'. "I don't see any reason not," she replied. "Do you need your father to help you carry anything?"

"No, I'll be fine. We're leaving at five in the morning." He smiled at how his mother put a hand dramatically to her heart. She always slept in on Saturdays.

"Lord! What men will do for a silly line of fish."

"Aw, Mom, it's for the fun of it. We might not even do any fishing." He'd have to ask Jack about that, so he'd know what gear to bring. He found himself actually getting excited about the trip. "Once I get my sailing license, I'll take you out. Didn't you like it when we went on the lake last time?"

"I have to say, fresh air does feel nice now and then. All right, my little sailor." She blew a kiss onto her hand and pressed her fingertips to his forehead. "I'll see you for dinner. Get your homework done before then."

"Yes, ma'am."

He checked his watch. He still had a couple of hours. Rubbing the watch strap, he threaded his way back out and reclaimed his bike.

"It's not the end of the world," he repeated to himself out loud. He got a running start down the ramp and pedaled as fast as he could all the way home.

  
END.

**Author's Note:**

> [Beginnings And Ending Index](http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/34137.html)
> 
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> 
> There's a couple of things this story tried to show--
> 
> 1\. It was important to me that Hutch's parents not be neglectful or abusive. Children who get victimized are not targeted simply because they have 'bad' parents. Yes, certain situations will make a child more vulnerable than others.  Yes, there are some parents who are supremely poorly appointed for that role.  However, nobody should be allowed to turn up his/her nose and say, "That could never happen to _my_  child, because unlike them,  _I_  am a _good_  parent."
> 
> 2\. I wanted to show how the situation with Howie could have occurred, _despite_ Hutch's parents not being terrible. Hutch's relationship with his mother and father, although a loving one, nevertheless engendered the vulnerability that Howie was able to exploit. Hutch's parents clearly treat him as an independent quasi-adult.  They also have a lot of expectations of him -- not encouragement, but _expectation_.  They are also (perhaps justifiably) busy and distracted.  All this together means that, despite Hutch's young age, he has a lot of room for making his own decisions, both physically and mentally, and he has been trained to have a skewed perception of his own responsibility in any given situation, good or bad.  Howie was able to draw him in by giving the appearance of always being there to protect him, baby him, and to evince continuous amazed surprise at how 'wonderful' and 'smart' he is.  It must have been a very comforting and magical thing to have someone like that -- especially when that someone was also showering him with gifts and giving him fantastic orgasms.  It would have been far too easy to mistake all that for love.
> 
> I think it's bittersweet that Hutch's parents make him feel better about what happened with Howie, but at the same time, they unknowingly help to convince him of the 'normality' of it.
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:    
>      [Pretense](http://community.livejournal.com/starskyhutch911/421647.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji    
>      [Lost And Found](http://community.livejournal.com/starskyhutch911/109395.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji    
>      [Moving On](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2540099/1/) (Gundam Seed), by kuonji  
>      [Phone Call Home](http://community.livejournal.com/sga_flashfic/438933.html) (Stargate Atlantis), by kuonji  
>      [Like Peanut Butter And Jelly](http://sites.google.com/site/alliesfanfiction/like-peanut-butter-and-jelly) (Starsky & Hutch), by Allie  
>  


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